Human
by Ink Spotz
Summary: Sherlock displays himself as the calm and collected detective. What happens to make him show his 'human' side? Based on the song "Human" by Christina Perri.


**AN: I apologize ahead of time for making you cry. I just had to write this. I hope you enjoy it, and any reviews will be welcome. ) **

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I have only ever seen Sherlock Holmes cry once.

Up until that point in time, I thought that Sherlock was invincible. I thought that nothing could ever hurt him. He was always able to see things that weren't always that clear to others. To me, he was a superhero; someone that could always do what was right and always save everyone from their dilemma. For a while, I didn't even believe that he was human.

If only someone could have saved him from this heartache. As a friend, I only wish I could.

I remember the day as if it were just yesterday, when in fact it was over three months ago today.

Sherlock and I were hanging around the flat, looking through the blog for a case. Sherlock, bored as he always was, was only half listening to me as he tossed a gun back and forth between his hands.

"How about this? A woman claims that her fiance was kidnapped before the wedding?"

"Cold feet obviously," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"Woman claims her debit card was wiped clean..."

"She held it too close to the magnet clasp in her purse..." Sherlock groaned, tilting his head back as he leaned back in the chair. "I swear, our clients just manage to get more boring. I wish life would just be interesting again!"

"Be careful what you wish for," I warned, reaching over to grab my tea cup and take a sip, looking at Sherlock with a raised brow.

Sherlock brought his head back up and looked at me, a look of utter disbelief decorating his face.

"Are you really lecturing _me?_" asked Sherlock with a slight laugh.

I tried to warn him. It wasn't like I knew this would happen, but I tried nonetheless because I'm his friend.

The phone suddenly rang. Seeing that Sherlock was not about to get up and answer it, I went to grab his phone off the cupboard in the kitchen and placed it to my ear, answering it.

"John Watson."

"John, it's Mycroft."

He sounded out of breath, sort of the way you are after going for an intense run.

"What's up, Mycroft?"

"Is Sherlock around? I need to speak to him."

"One moment."

I held the receiver against my hand as I whispered to Sherlock, "It's Mycroft!"

"Tell him to bug off. I don't want to do all his work."

"But you're bored anyway! Why can't you-"

"John, end of discussion."

I sighed and put the phone back to my ear.

"I'm sorry, but he's busy at the moment."

Mycroft sighed, his breath hiccuping for a second.

"Do tell him it's urgent when you get a chance to talk to him, would you?"

The way he had said that, I was suspicious, but I had been stupid and pushed it aside.

"Of course. Take care, Mycroft."

I hung up the phone and tossed it at Sherlock. He caught it expertly with his fingers and studied it.

"Take it it was the same old mundane drawl, right?"

"Sherlock, you really should talk to your brother once in a while. Why don't you two ever hang out?"

"Why don't you and Harriet ever hang out?" Sherlock stated as a rebuttal. "In fact, why are you lecturing to me about family at all?"

"Sherlock, just because you're bored doesn't mean you can start taking stabs at people for fun."

"It's called jesting, John. Get a dictionary. I'm trying to joke, 'socialize'," he said, emphasizing the word with two fingers on each hand, "Won't be trying that again."

I rolled my eyes. Sherlock's humor was as dry as the desert, but I couldn't say anything. For one reason or another, Sherlock harbored some sort of resentment toward his brother to cover up the affection he actually felt toward him. Why? I had no idea. I don't understand Sherlock, and I doubt I ever will.

Mycroft called again later that evening. By this point, Sherlock was so bored that he was lying upset down on the couch, his feet in the air and his head toward the floor. He claimed he was trying to see how long it took for all the blood to rush to his head.

"John Watson."

"John, it's Mycroft again. I _really_ need to speak to Sherlock. It's urgent."

This time, his breathing sounded more ragged.

"Mycroft, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just put Sherlock on the line please."

I placed the phone against my hand again and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock currently had his eyes closed, obviously feeling the rush of blood to his head.

"Sherlock, it's Mycroft again. I _really_ think you should speak with him."

Sherlock cracked open one eye, flicking his blue gaze up at me.

"Really now? Why is that?"

"You're bored anyway. Can't you just humor me?"

I held out the phone to him. He cast his one eye gaze upon the phone before sighing. He opened both eyes and flipped off the couch, walking over to me and taking the phone from my grasp.

"Holmes speaking."

I couldn't hear the rest of the conversation from there. I leaned against the counter, watching Sherlock's usual passive face. The longer the conversation went on however, the more that passive facade was starting to crumble away. Emotion started to snake its way onto Sherlock's face, starting first at the twitch in his lip then traveling up to the rapid blinking of his eyelids. When Sherlock hung up the phone, his whole passiveness was no more. Displayed on his face for all the world to see was something I thought I'd never find there. Grief.

"John, we need to go."

Before I could even get any words out of my mouth, Sherlock was shrugging into his coat, tying his scarf around his neck.

"Sherlock, what is..."

"John, please," said Sherlock, his voice cracking.

Sherlock never said please when he wanted something done, nor did his voice betray his usually calm, collected stature. That was when I knew something was really up. I quickly tugged on my coat and followed Sherlock as he rushed out the door.

"It's Mycroft, isn't it?"

Sherlock ignored me as he tried to wave down a cab.

"Sherlock, what's wrong with Mycroft?"

I reached out and gripped his sleeve. A cab saw us and pulled up, Sherlock's arm falling slack at his side.

"It's nothing. He's fine."

We got into the cab and Sherlock stared out the window as we rode off. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn't help it. Once in a while my gaze found itself back on Sherlock.

"Sherlock, it'll be alright."

I reached over and pat his back in a friendly gesture, giving him a weak smile.

Sherlock turned to me and that's when I saw it. His blue eyes were glistening with tears, like specks of stars. The star-like tears welled up in his eyes, one or two sneaking out and trailing down his face. Sherlock's lip trembled slightly, but he bit it to try to hide the fact.

"I should have listened to you, John," said Sherlock quietly before turning to look out the window again. "Now it might be too late."

I didn't say anything else. Soon we arrived. Sherlock flew out of the car like he had wings attached to the soles of his feet. I followed after him, running up the steps two at a time. By the time I got to where he was, I noticed that he was sitting on the side of Mycroft's bed, holding his hand. He was running his thumb over his knuckles, tears silently rushing down his face.

"Do stop your blubbering. You're acting like such a child," said Mycroft with a weak smile.

As I approached the bed, I noticed how awful Mycroft looked and couldn't help but gasp in shock. Mycroft's face had lost all traces of color. He was whiter than the sheets he lay under. His breathing came out in shaky rasps and every time he talked, his voice wobbled, weakened.

"Shh...stop talking. Save your energy," said Sherlock.

"Save my energy for what, Sherlock? Don't be naive. You know I'm..."

"Don't say it," said Sherlock, closing his eyes to try to stop the flow of tears. "Please don't. You're going to be alright."

"Ah, little brother." Mycroft reached a shaky hand up to rest it against Sherlock's wet cheek. "I'm so proud of you."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at Mycroft. Mycroft held his gaze, a faint smile on his face.

"You are?"

"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Mycroft, stop talking like you're about to die. You're not going to die."

"Sherlock, you're smart. Look at the signs for goodness sakes. I'm dying. I _will_ die." Mycroft hacked for a second before looking back at Sherlock. "John can attest. He's a bloody doctor."

Of course Mycroft had to shift the topic of conversation to me. Keeping a hold of Mycroft's hand, Sherlock turned to face me.

"He's going to live. Right? He isn't about to die, is he?"

Mycroft shifted his weakened gaze to me as well. I looked into his gaze and knew without a doubt that Mycroft was right. My voice leaving me mute with grief, all I could do was nod, my eyes growing wet.

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, his body starting to shake now from the grief building up inside him.

"You're such a drama queen," said Mycroft weakly, looking at him, trying vainly to attempt another joke.

"This is what you get for eating so much cake," said Sherlock back, his voice choked by tears.

Mycroft let out a faint laugh, reaching up again to weakly touch Sherlock's cheek with his free hands.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft. I should have been here for you all along. I should have been here for you more."

"Shh...Sherlock. There is nothing to be sorry for. We're both to blame. The weight doesn't lie solely on you."

Mycroft ran his thumb slowly over Sherlock's wet cheek, brushing away some of the tears that were still lying there.

"I love you so much, baby brother. Never forget that."

Mycroft's eyelids started to twitch as his head sank into the pillow. With one last gasp of air leaving his mouth, Mycroft's hand dropped from Sherlock's face to rest limply at his side.

"No! Mycroft, no!"

By this point, Sherlock was sobbing, his body shaking with tears.

"No! No! No!"

Sherlock shouted the words out as he wrapped his arms around his brother's body, hugging him close to his chest.

"No..." he whimpered as he buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder.

All I could do was watch. There was nothing I could have done to attempt to save Mycroft's life or to save Sherlock from his grief. All I could do was watch as the human inside the always collected Sherlock shined through.

I have only ever seen Sherlock Holmes cry once.

And it was when his brother died in his arms.


End file.
